Cam still wasn’t used to the new tone in his father’s voice, but he liked it. The old saying was true. Better late than never.
“I’m okay, Dad.” He liked that, too. Thinking of Avery as “Dad.”
“I haven’t seen much of you lately.”
“No. Well, I’ve been busy.”
“I have one of those benefit things to attend tonight. I was hoping you might go with me.”
“Thanks, Dad, but—”
“I thought we’d spend a little time together.” Avery gave a laugh that was clearly forced. “It’s an arts recital, Cameron. I can’t get out of it but I can’t imagine how I’m going to sit through it, either. With you there, you know, two cultural heathens side by side, I figure I might just make it.”
It was so unlike anything his father had ever said to him that Cam felt his throat tighten.
“Your mother,” Avery said with a little laugh. “Your mother used to love this stuff.”
Cam held his breath. He couldn’t recall his father ever mentioning his mother before.
“Did she?” he said carefully.
“She’s the reason I began supporting these things. The Arts Council. The theater. The museum.” Avery cleared his throat. “I don’t know why, but I’ve been thinking about your mother a lot these past weeks. How proud she’d be to see you and your brothers all grown up.”
“Yes.” Cam swallowed hard. “We—I—think about her, too.”
“I loved her something fierce, Cameron.” His father’s voice grew husky. “So much that there were times I was afraid to show it. I know that sounds crazy, but—”
Unbidden, an image of Salome lying beneath him, her blue eyes dark with passion, flashed through Cam’s mind. He shook it away, as a dog might shake water from its coat, just as his father spoke again.
“Well,” Avery said briskly, “how about tonight? If you’re not up for it, I’ll understand.”
“I’m up for it, Dad.”
“Great, son. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”
Cam shaved. Showered. Put on his tux. Told himself that an evening out was a great idea. He wouldn’t think about Salome. Not once—except to despise himself for thinking about her at all.
She was gone. Out of his life, and he couldn’t have cared less.
Their seats in the baroque Music Hall were fourth row, center. Both men opened their programs.
“An Evening With The Arts,” his father read aloud, and gave a deep sigh. “It’s going to be endless, Cameron. A little of this, a little of that, none of it good. Speeches. Presentations. A soprano caterwauling, a boys’ chorus trying to sound angelic. A flamenco guitarist and, good Lord, a corps de ballet. Thank you for coming, son. I’m eternally grateful.”
Cam nodded. Somehow, he and his old man endured the first half. Went for drinks during intermission, said “hello” to lots of people though his father did less glad-handing than in the past. When the lights blinked, they returned to their seats.
Cam settled down next to his father. Smothered a yawn as an overweight lady trilled to an overweight guy in a bad toupee. Shifted his weight as another guy ruined what could have been a great bit on the guitar by trying to look dark and mysterious.
Polite applause for the guitarist. Rustles. Coughs. The curtains opened again; music softly swelled.
Cam folded his arms, watched from under his lashes as a group of ballerinas danced onstage.
“Got to admit, they’re easy on the eyes,” his father whispered…
And Cam damned near shot from his seat because the last ballerina tiptoeing out from the wings was Salome.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HE MUST have done something. Tensed up or maybe started to rise. Something, because his father clasped his arm and said, “Cameron?” in a low voice.